We sat together surrounded by silence and tension. The familiar scent of vanilla filled my nose and that day it almost burned. In the passenger seat of that blue Mercury I looked up at the two Tahitian Vanilla air fresheners that dangled from the rearview mirror. They were dancing with the way he drove, or maybe they were shaking in fear of what might happen next. When I looked over at him both hands were on the wheel holding it tight. His right hand wasn’t reaching across to where I sat to hold my hand, it wasn’t waving around in the middle of some crazy hand gesture he created to explain something he did last Friday night or even resting casually on his leg, it just sat still on the side of the wheel, holding it tight.

“Tell me,” he said firmly.

I stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that drove him crazy and screamed that he wouldn’t get his way this time. It was satisfying not to give in. I thought back to all the times I did. I fought back because I didn’t know an argument was his fuel and I mistakenly believed that I had a chance at winning his game. This time I wouldn’t tell him anything. As the seconds dragged on, his hands started to wrench the wheel out of what I could only imagine to be pure frustration. So the silence kept on.

After a while we pulled into the parking lot I pushed away the old memories of our long goodbyes and turned my attention ahead of us. The car jerked to a stop and shifted roughly into park, almost knocking the two Tahitian Vanilla air fresheners off the mirror.

“You need to tell me what’s wrong,” he said. It was in the tone of voice your mom used when right before she would slowly count to three. Almost like he expected me to believe I didn’t have a choice, and for a split second I didn’t believe I did. The mind games he played were rigged and so unfair but this time I would win. I wondered what made him think he had that kind of control. What kind of power did he give himself?

That was the moment something clicked, and to this day I couldn’t tell you what it was but something told me it was time to go. I reached for the door handle with the high hopes of leaving everything behind, but as I felt my fingers wrapping around the cold hard piece of plastic that would be my escape I felt his touch. The touch that brought me back to slow dancing to my favorite country song in the bakery downtown, the touch that took me back to the second bench on the left in the high school hallway where there were endless smiles and so many hopeful hellos. It was the touch that wiped my tears then pulled me close and the touch that was holding tight to my wrist like a falcon to its prey.
I hated that I was nothing but a last resort now. I hated that I could see the desperation in his eyes begging me not to leave him like the rest, but I finally saw the reason why the rest fled without looking back. He doesn’t care who he’s with as long as he isn’t alone. I tugged against his grasp, first out of instinct then with the longing for independence. This would be a new beginning for me. When he realized he was wasting his time his grip loosened and my hand swiftly slipped away. In one graceful movement I was out the door and before I knew what I was doing I felt my legs walking fast, a tear running down my cheek and freedom rushing through my bones telling me not to look back. I’ll never look back.